Reflections
by ColfaxBella
Summary: Bella moved to Denver to follow her boyfriend. Her mysterious neighbor shatters her world.
1. Chapter 1

**reflections**

It was nearly 11 at night, and I was pissed. The dinner I'd spent hours cooking now clung limply to the gold-rimmed white china plates I'd so lovingly arranged around the table. The taper candles that had been brand new hours before had melted over the silver candlesticks, coating the shining metal with white waxy drips in silence. The entire house was silent. The pulse of Coltrane's Love Supreme I'd swayed to while setting the table had long since ceased to bring life to the room. As my fingers traced the outline of the lip of my wineglass, I turned and looked at my reflection in the front window of my home. The darkness of the night was the perfect backdrop for my isolation. Great. Twinned in the reflection of the glass were the two flames of the candles I'd lit with such anticipation hours before. To the right of the first flame, I saw myself, reflected in the glass, alone again, of course, illuminated by the dancing flames. Somehow, the delicacy of the candlelight seemed a rebuke to the grim face reflected in the window glass.

I considered myself, as I stared at my reflection in the window, as though I was seeing myself for the first time. The girl, no, the woman before me seemed almost like a stranger. The reflection wore the short hair he preferred, a chin-length bob with bangs. The woman in the window wore a black, knee-length trench coat, with the collar upturned, like the protagonist in a spy novel. What the reflection didn't reveal was that beneath the coat, I wore nothing but a black corset, a garter belt and silky soft thigh highs.

I thought he'd like this.

Sick of staring at myself in the window, I crossed my legs and took another sip of wine. Surveying the evening's damage, I found I was grateful that I'd decided to decant the 1999 Borolo and help myself rather than waiting for him to come home. As I brought my glass to my lips, savoring the velvety texture of the wine, the silence of the house seemed oppressive.

I wondered what was wrong with me.

Trying to banish that thought, I picked up my uneaten plate of food and my wineglass and made my way to my kitchen. Indulging in another sip, I scraped the food off my plate into the trash and lightly rinsed my plate before putting it into the dishwasher. Once again, I brought the precious wine to my mouth and savored it as it danced over my tongue and brought my senses to life.

I knew what I had to do next.

Gently putting my glass on the counter, I returned to the dining room and purposefully blew out first one candle, then the other, before picking up his full plate and returning to the kitchen. With measured movements, I took a butter knife and used it to scrape first a lamb chop, then a side of steamed, garlic-infused spinach, followed by the Yukon gold mashed potatoes I'd made by hand, hours ago. With each scrape against the plate, I tried to will myself to scrape him out of my life, but I knew it was useless. No matter what I did to the china, I was still the woman, practically nude in a trench coat, who was wiping food off of plates, waiting for him. I still wanted him to come to me.

Fuck me.

The comforting thing about cleaning is that when you're done, no one can tell what happened before. As I returned to the dining room for what was probably the tenth time, the immaculate space confirmed what my mind wanted to know. If anyone had entered my house tonight, they'd never be able to tell. They'd never notice the effort I'd put into the meal; they wouldn't see my desperate attempt to capture his attention. The most casual observer would only see my everyday centerpiece, an iron candelabra with three votives covered by smoky glass window shades. They wouldn't see my desperation. I wanted him here. I wanted him to notice me, to want me.

Returning to the kitchen, my eyes swiveled and took in the clean expanse. Yep. If someone came into my kitchen he or she would never know about the meal I'd prepared tonight. Hell, my kitchen still looked brand-new. Even the best detective on one of those Law and Order shows would never be able to tell that I'd cooked my first meal for him in my kitchen tonight. Surveying my work, I was pleased. So pleased that I emptied the last of the fan-tab-u-listic Borolo into my glass and set the decanter into the sink for a rinse.

With gentle movements, I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. In the hour since my last glass, the wine had opened up even more and was so rich and supple, I couldn't contain my moan. The shitty insecure douche part of my psyche – my inner teen – tried to rear her ugly head to say that I'll never moan like that for a man. Thankfully, I wasn't in the mood to take her shit tonight, so I relished my wine and strolled back into the living room, once again looking out the window.

With the houselights off, I sat in my living room chair, snuggled into a blanket and sipped my wine while I stared out the window. The darkness of my home only served to illuminate the scene beyond my window. A streetlamp lit the corner and every now and again a stray car would coast up 14th. Absently, I checked my cell phone, for the hundredth time tonight, and I wasn't sure how I felt when I noticed that I had no missed calls, no texts, no voicemails and no emails. I was so utterly alone that even the usual spam mongers hadn't bothered me tonight.

Relishing the last sip of the Barolo, I rose and returned to the kitchen. Finding the bottle empty, I rinsed my glass and sought another distraction. Tonight's silent rejection weighed on me and all I wanted was a release, an escape. This was the perfect night to dip into my secret stash of emergency vodka.

I paused a moment to praise the creators of Ketel One as I dropped three ice cubes into a small glass before pouring the thick clear liquid over them. I needed, no, I deserved, this escape.

Clutching my martini on the rocks, I returned to my perch in the living room and stared outside. While I was refreshing my drink, it had started to snow, and it was beautiful.

I'd moved to Denver three months ago, supposedly following the love of my life. I'd left the desert heat of Arizona in trade for the 300 days of sunshine of Colorado. No one told me that it could be sunny and 10 degrees at the same time. No matter the weather, I'd fallen in love with Denver, and with my neighborhood. The house I bought was a little over 100 years old, which felt ancient to me. In Phoenix, homes built in the 1940s were considered historic. My home was similar to a Denver square, but it was smaller, more like a rectangle. Despite its small size, it was large on charm. The wide-plank pine floors, combined with the oak woodwork that surrounded every window and the pocket doors around the living room all combined to imbue my home with early 20th century charm. I love it and the craftsmanship contained within.

I decorated simply. Most of my furniture was cast-offs from my parents. Renee had sent her piano, because I'd first learned to play chopsticks on it, and not much else. Charlie, being more practical, had sent a dining room table and chairs, two easy chairs and an antique radio that I'd converted to a stereo case. My neighbor Quin had found a dresser in the alley that was perfect for my needs. When I moved into my first home, the only new piece of furniture I bought was a king-sized bed. I'd always wanted one, and when the inspection on the house revealed that I needed a new roof and a new furnace, careful budgeting left room for the bed that had become my sanctuary.

I loved sitting in my living room chair, snuggled beneath a blanket, looking out the window and listening to music. Before I'd returned to my comfortable perch, I'd put Split Lip Rayfield's album "Live at the Bluebird" into my CD player. I'd always remember that night. On my first weekend in Denver, I'd walked the two blocks to the Bluebird Theater and had reveled in one of Kirk Rundstrom's last shows in Denver. The day after the show he'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer. As he played that night his energy exploded throughout the theater and captured me with every movement and every lyric. I'd camped out by the back bar and had drunk them in, my hips swaying in time, uncontrollably. As the crowds' screams drowned out their last farewell I returned my empty glass to the bar and walked home, alone.

He was supposed to go with me that night, but had called to say he had to work late. Understanding the pressures of his job, I'd let him know that I'd be fine, on my own. Not wanting to spend my first weekend trapped in the house, I'd gone alone. When we lived in Phoenix, I never needed to venture out alone on the weekends. He'd always been there and we'd done so much together. He'd moved before I had, since I was waiting to find a job. In the six months before my move, he'd flown to Phoenix almost every weekend. After three months in Denver, it sometimes felt like I'd seen him more often before I'd moved.

I absently pressed play on my stereo remote and in moments I heard Coltrane's Love Supreme echo throughout my empty living room. Shaken from my reverie, I returned to the kitchen to refresh my martini. Going through the motions, I pretended to myself that hearing Coltrane's sax didn't nearly cripple my body with longing for the kind of love every note described.

I desperately wanted a smoke. I'd been "quitting" for about six months, but I always kept a stash in the hall closet. With a fumbling hand, I grasped my secret pack of yellow American Sprits and a book of matches before slipping off my heels and trading them for comfy boots.

Stepping outside, I lit my smoke and realized that a feather-light coating of snow had fallen since I'd returned home. Grateful for my gloves, I surveyed my snow-covered sidewalks and knew I needed to clear them. Since the snow was so unbelievably light, I grabbed my broom, rather than my shovel, and began to sweep the light dusting of snow off of my stairs.

Feeling motivated, and honestly, a bit drunk, I swept my stairs and kept going up the sidewalk. Swish to the right, swish to the left, with each movement, I found myself soothed, and the ache of being stood up seemed to fade somehow. It must have been the combination of the wine, the vodka, the cold and the peacefulness of the slowly falling snow that centered by soul.

My neighbor Jane has a bad back, so out of habit I cleared her walk. When I first moved in last October, Jane greeted me with a handmade card requesting that I shovel her walks. At first I thought it was a bit forward, but I wanted to be a good neighbor. I may not have been the first owner of this century-old home, but it was my first ever house. I'd lived in a condo in Phoenix and neighborliness extended to getting someone's mail or feeding their cat. Shoveling snow and raking leaves were new examples of being a good neighbor.

In the dark, with the snow still lightly falling, I swept the sidewalk clean. It soothed me.

My cigarette still wasn't done, so I kept going; sweeping the snow off the sidewalk with a steady back and forth swish, pausing every now and again to savor a drag. I found myself staring at the brick façade of Jane's neighbor's home. I knew that the house had sold months ago, shortly after I bought mine, but none of the other neighbors had met the new owner. Feeling neighborly, I started to sweep the new owner's walk, swishing back and forth until I reached the steps that led to the front porch. As I reached the three flagstone steps that led to the porch, I paused to take a long drag on my contraband cigarette. Exhaling, I tilted my face towards the midnight sky and felt the soft drops of snow land and melt on my cheeks. Even though I lived in the heart of the city, my home bounded by two busy streets, the night was silent, muffled somewhat by the snow.

My heart crashed into my stomach when I heard a screen door smash into brick. Blinking I turned to face the front porch and saw a man glowering at me from the front porch.

"What the fuck are you doing on my property?" he shouted.

I lamely swished the broom and stared at the flagstone beneath me while I tried to form words. "I, um, I live two houses down and was just clearing the sidewalks, I mean, I always do Jane's next door, so I thought I'd keep going and, fuck, I'm sorry." I turned and ran back to my house in shame, never once looking at the angry man who'd shouted at me. As soon as I stepped on my porch, I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray, dropped the broom in its place and flung myself into my house.

Once inside, I peeled off my gloves and hat and coat, dropping them unceremoniously into a heap on the floor in the entryway. My heart was racing and I felt like a fool.


	2. Chapter 2

**Reflections.2**

_I lamely swished the broom and stared at the flagstone beneath me while I tried to form words. "I, um, I live two houses down and was just clearing the sidewalks, I mean, I always do Jane's next door, so I thought I'd keep going and, fuck, I'm sorry." I turned and ran back to my house in shame, never once looking at the angry man who'd shouted at me. As soon as I stepped on my porch, I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray, dropped the broom in its place and flung myself into my house. _

_Once inside, I peeled off my gloves and hat and coat, dropping them unceremoniously into a heap on the floor in the entryway. My heart was racing and I felt like a fool. _

After stripping off my winter gear, I ran upstairs towards my bedroom. Seeking refuge in my bed, I quickly stripped off my hopeful instruments of seduction. With purposeful movements, I undid my corset, dragged my stockings off my legs and unfastened my garter. With a sigh, I opened my bureau drawer and withdrew a pair of sweats and a thin t-shirt. Pulling my comfort clothes onto my body, I pulled the blankets off my bed so that I could snuggle under them. As I snuggled in and turned the TV onto Bravo, I tried to distract my mind, to avoid the self-criticism I knew was about to rumble through my mind like a thunderstorm in spring. My inner dialogue was always a confused mess and worked to stave off sleep. With any luck the shrill voices of the Desperate Housebitches of Plastic Hell would dull my senses.

_I knew I wasn't worthy of him. _

_But he asked me to move here._

_What if he didn't mean it? What if he asked, just to be polite?_

_Who asks their girlfriend of three years to move to a new city just to be polite?_

_There's nothing to worry about. Of course Mike loves you._

_Then why didn't he ask you to live with him?_

_He knew you wanted to be independent. Besides, he wanted to live in the suburbs. You wanted to live in the city. _

_Why didn't he come tonight? Why didn't he call, or text or fucking twitter? _

_This is the fifth time he's canceled. _

_He didn't even really cancel. He just didn't fucking show up. That's a no call no show. Fire the fucker._

_What if he's hurt? What if he's in jail? Fuck. What if he's in Detox?_

_Screw that. If he was in jail or Detox he would have called. Who other than you would bail him out?_

Frustrated with myself and my inner idiot, I rolled onto my other side, hoping a new position would quiet the voices in my head. Who knew how many minutes passed as my inner voices continued to play off of my worst fears while making a proverbial mountain out of a molehill. With a groan, I rolled over again, twisting my legs in the bed sheets; it took all of my strength to resist the urge to kick my legs in a tantrum as if I were a toddler. A commercial for OxyGlo came on and refocused my attention.

It was 3:00 am and I was wide fucking awake and the Greek chorus in my head was showing no signs of approaching intermission. Fuck me. It was either call an 800 number to buy a particularly stellar cleaning product or get the fuck up.

With a huff, I rolled out of bed, knowing sleep would continue to elude me. I'd always had bouts of insomnia, ever since puberty, and had long since learned that when sleep wouldn't come I should just suck it up and do something productive. Usually I bake. Sometimes I clean. When I had a lover in my bed, well, let's just say I found something else to do with my time.

Pulling on my robe and shuffling into my slippers I made my way downstairs, turning on lights as I made my way towards the kitchen. Although I loved my house, the kitchen was definitely not its selling point. Although the oven and fridge were new and stainless steel, the upper cabinets had no doors, so my everyday glasses and dishes were exposed to the world; not that anyone other than Mike had even been in my home. The remaining cabinets had doors that were painted white and were beginning to chip. Mike had promised to help me repaint them. The floor was cheap white linoleum that would never look completely clean, no matter how often I scrubbed it. About a month after I'd bought the place, I'd found some beautiful slate tile on clearance at a flooring discount outlet and Mike had promised to tear out the linoleum and lay the slate. With a bit of bitterness I let my eyes focus on the neat stacks of slate that lay accumulating dust under my counter.

As I pulled flour, sugar, molasses, cinnamon, allspice, cloves, nutmeg, ginger and baking soda out of my pantry, I thought about all of the promises that Mike had been breaking or forgetting lately. As I looked at the ingredients I'd set out on the counter, it was obvious that my subconscious was in the mood to make my Grandmother's gingerbread cookies. Christmas was two weeks away, and I'd been meaning to bake. I wanted to make up plates of cookies to leave with each of my neighbors, as a way to try to get to know them and to wish them Merry Christmas. For some reason, I wanted to be a part of this neighborhood. I wanted to know the people who lived around me, to be a part of a community. I'd bought into an urban neighborhood, characterized by front porches and wide sidewalks, specifically because the architecture facilitated community.

I'd worked in the Planning Department for the City of Mesa ever since graduating with my M.A. in Urban Planning and Design. I'd hated the job in Mesa, because I spent my days reviewing the City's zoning code with developers who insisted on building cookie-cutter suburban developments where the predominant feature of every home was the 2.5 car garage door. Nothing says community like never seeing your neighbors.

As I poured ingredients into my mixer, my mind wandered back to why I'd gone into planning in the first place. The rotation of the dough hook almost hypnotized me as I thought about my Grandma Swan and what community really meant. As I added a half-cup of flour to the mix, I thought about the first time I'd met her. I was seventeen and my Dad, Charlie, had just picked me up from the Seattle airport. Since my parents' divorce, I'd lived with my mother, until she'd met Phil. One thing led to another and I was on a plane to live with virtual strangers. It's funny. It was just a few weeks before Christmas that I'd decided to live with Charlie. I wouldn't be surprised if the date of my arrival in Forks was close to today's date.

Musing over that thought, I added the second egg the mix, and was once again lost in my thoughts.

When I got to baggage claim, it wasn't surprising that there was a crowd. What did surprise me was the laughter I heard from my fellow passengers. As I got closer to the rotating steel, I immediately saw what was so funny. Someone's suitcase had been torn open in transit. As I saw my first teddy bear, Mr. Munch, rolling on the metal track, I knew that it was my luggage that had burst. With help from the airline staff, I pulled my belongings together, while inwardly hoping to melt into the carpet to disappear. I was grateful for the super-strong tape they had on hand to mend my damaged belongings. Trying to retain my dignity, I pulled myself upright, grabbed my luggage by the handle and rolled my life away from the baggage claim of mortification and towards the automatic double doors that stood between my old life and my new life. Before my arrival, Charlie and I had planned to meet before the doors marked 202. As I added another half-cup of flour I remembered how interesting airport pick-ups were in the age before cell phones. I remember half-walking half-stumbling through the doors and walking up to the curb, waiting to see the man who was my biological father, but was truly a stranger to me.

Charlie had picked me up in his cruiser; even though I rode shotgun with him, I felt as though every person who saw us suspected I was some sort of criminal. Our long drive from Seattle to Forks was silent, other than the usual platitudes required by polite society. Yes, my flight was good. No, I wasn't hungry. Yes, Renee seemed well.

Until we arrived at Charlie's home, our home, I'd assumed that I'd spend the next 18 months in silence. With only the click-clack of a turn-signal to alert me to a change in direction, Charlie turned right onto the asphalt driveway of the home I hadn't seen in over a decade. The house was the same clapboard-covered one and a half story with a small porch. Everything looked the same as I remembered as a child, except for the woman in the bright red dress standing on the porch with a bouquet of balloons waving at us wildly. As Charlie put the car in park he looked at the woman, and I swear to this day that his only response was to look towards his lap as he whispered one word, "Shit."

Since Charlie hadn't made a move to open his door, I remained still. I watched my father as his hands returned to the steering wheel and gripped the plastic so tightly I was surprised that he didn't leave marks. With an almost imperceptible groan, Charlie turned to me and said, "I'm so sorry Bella."

I'm sure I looked at him like he'd spoken in Russian. Noting my confusion he said, "Adele. My mother. She's on the porch. She's so excited that you're here, she couldn't stay away." He paused, perhaps expecting a response from me. When I continued to stare at him with wide eyes he asked, "Didn't Renee tell you about your Grandma Adele?"

In answer, I shook my head slowly from left to right. My stomach suddenly felt queasy. As far as I knew, I didn't have any living grandparents.

Again, Charlie looked down and muttered something unintelligible. After a moment, he returned his gaze to mine and said, "I'm sorry Bella. That woman on the porch is my mother. She hasn't seen you since you were 2 years old. Every time you came to visit me, she was off on her annual summer cruise. She was always gone, because I didn't tell her you were coming. I just. Um. I just wanted to have you to myself. I know it was selfish, but I didn't see the harm…" With that his voice drifted off, and it registered to me that my father had spoken more words to me in that minute than he had the last few times I'd seen him combined. Charlie took a deep breath and opened his door. I followed suit. What else could I do? As Charlie concentrated on removing my bags from the trunk, I focused on the lady in red who was screeching my name.

Although I'd always been shy, the first moment that Adele wrapped her arms around me, I felt as though I was home for the first time. She kissed my cheek and pulled back, staring at my face. She looked to my left, at Charlie, and said, "She's the image of Renee, but she has your spirit son."

Charlie's face reddened at her words. Even for my teenage self, it was comforting to know that my distant father shared my genetic habit of blushing when uncomfortable.

Once Adele released me from her grasp she ushered me inside and proceeded to give me a tour of my new home. For the next year, Adele was like a mother to me. She taught me how to cook, but more importantly, she taught me her secret family cookie recipes.

When I was about to graduate from high school, Adele took me out for high tea at a bed and breakfast in Port Angeles. Going with her, I felt both awkward and sophisticated. I felt awkward, because I didn't know what to expect from high tea. I felt sophisticated, because Grandma Adele had bought me a beautiful gauzy cream dress and completed the look with a cream hat and cream gloves. I felt like I was in a cotillion or some sort of ritzy coming out party, like an east coast debutante.

When we arrived at the B&B, Grandma gave me a tight hug and whispered in my ear that she loved me. We sat in the fancy tea room and sipped our drinks while nibbling on cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches. We whispered to each other about the authenticity of the experience and wondered if the Bronte sisters would be pleased. Just before it was time to go, Grandma handed me a beautifully wrapped package.

Since my facial expressions have always made me an open book, Grandma said, "Bella, this is your early graduation gift. I wanted to give it to you now, when it's just us girls, as opposed to all of the hoopla on your actual big day."

Her excited eyes encouraged me to open the package. As I gently tore the paper, slipping the beautiful silver wrapping from the plastic bonds of scotch tape, I slowly revealed what looked like a basic three-ring binder. Realizing that I'd opened the backside of the package, I turned the binder open and gasped at what I saw. The front of the binder was hand decorated, and read "Bella's New Cookbook. Have Fun Cooking. You Can Do It." I thumbed through the binder. Grandma had recreated all of her favorite recipes, tabbed in order, from Cookies to Chicken to Mexican (who knew?) to Soup. I wasn't surprised that every recipe was hand-written, because Grandma hated computers. Each section of the cookbook was illustrated with pictures she'd either copied from cookbooks or ones that she'd taken herself. When I thumbed through the Cookie section, I saw that the cover page was decorated with a picture of her world famous gingerbread cookies. To say they were world famous was practically an understatement. She'd won the blue ribbon at the County fair more times than anyone could count. Legend had it that when she first spoke with George Crowley about doing her will, he wanted her to include the recipe as one of her assets. To my knowledge, Grandma had never given the recipe to anyone. Yet here, in this book she'd made just for me, she'd not only shared the recipe, but she'd decorated it with a photo of her last batch, just for me.

The whirring of the mixer jarred me from my memories. It was time to add more flour to Grandma Adele's recipe.

Once the dough had reached its perfect consistency, it was time for me to bundle it in saran wrap and refrigerate it overnight. Since tomorrow was a Saturday, I knew I would spend my afternoon leisurely rolling out batches of dough, cutting it into cute gingerbread men and baking them. I would decorate them on Sunday morning and distribute them Sunday afternoon. The ritual of making this recipe was so soothing to me, that I found myself getting sleepy. After cleaning up my mess, I made my way upstairs. As I removed my robe and kicked off my slippers, I found myself thinking of the new neighbor that I had pissed off so spectacularly. Wrapping myself beneath my blankets and cursing the Colorado chill, I found myself thinking about the anger my new neighbor had rained over me, when all I'd wanted to do was sweep his sidewalk.

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! This is my first Twilight fic, and I appreciate any and all comments or suggestions. Thanks!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Reflections.3**

_Once the dough had reached its perfect consistency, it was time for me to bundle it in saran wrap and refrigerate it overnight. Since tomorrow was a Saturday, I knew I would spend my afternoon leisurely rolling out batches of dough, cutting it into cute gingerbread men and baking them. I would decorate them on Sunday morning and distribute them Sunday afternoon. The ritual of making this recipe was so soothing to me, that I found myself getting sleepy. After cleaning up my mess, I made my way upstairs. As I removed my robe and kicked off my slippers, I found myself thinking of the new neighbor that I had pissed off so spectacularly. Wrapping myself beneath my blankets and cursing the Colorado chill, I found myself thinking about the anger my new neighbor had rained over me, when all I'd wanted to do was sweep his sidewalk._

My dreams of an angry man roaring at me like a lion about to devour my flesh were interrupted by the raucous sounds of Michael Jackson bleating about Billie Jean. If I'd ever doubted my strategy of putting my alarm across the room and tuned to the classic pop station, I was vindicated in this moment. Although I'd only slept about five hours, there was no way in hell that I would stay in bed while that nonsense was blaring in my head. I truly never understood the fascination with Michael Jackson. I was maybe 11 when he had a world tour that passed through Phoenix. So many of the girls in my junior high class adored him, but I just didn't get the appeal. It probably didn't help that at the time I was obsessed with the Beatles.

I'd always been obsessed by the Beatles. As a middle school kid, my bedroom in Renee's home was decorated with reproductions of famous Beatles' posters, like one of their appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. Every year, Renee would ask me what I wanted for Christmas, and I would respond with something about the Beatles. One year, we'd gone to Barnes & Noble and I'd found a book that was a history of the Beatles in pictures. I'd begged Renee for the book. Obviously she'd relented, because that year I'd found that book carefully wrapped beneath our Christmas tree. If Renee had been a more observant parent, she would have noticed that my precious book contained numerous nude photos of John and Yoko as they documented their Bed-In protest in film. Yep. The first cock I ever saw was a black and white photo of John Lennon's limp dick, while he was flanked by a nude Yoko Ono. Imagine the repercussions of that.

At any rate, it was Saturday morning. I was awake, or at least as awake as I was going to be, and it was time leave my bedroom. After putting hot water on the stove to boil, I went to my front door and peered through the blinds, trying to discern whether or not it had snowed enough to justify shoveling…or sweeping. With one glance, it was obvious that my shovel was not needed, but my broom was. I figured that I had enough time to sweep my walk and Jane's before the water for my tea would boil. As such, I slipped on my boots, hat, gloves and coat before stepping into the crisp Denver morning. The bimbo on channel 7 had announced only minutes before that it was a balmy 12 degrees this morning.

In what seemed like no time at all I swept my sidewalks and Jane's. I was careful to stop sweeping at the border of the new neighbor's house because the last thing I wanted to do was to piss him off again. My civic duty done, I dropped off the broom and retreated into my home, quickly stripping off my outdoor gear. As I pulled off my gloves, I heard a chime ring from my iPhone, and I found myself almost running towards the sound. Sadly, the familiar ding was a reminder for a yoga class I'd registered for last month but had never had the guts to attend. I hated exercising alone. Shutting off the reminder, I scrolled through my phone, disappointed that Mike hadn't bothered to call, or text or email. Frustrated, I called Mike and his phone rang and rang. Once his message ceased, I left my own, expressing my worry over his absence and my hope that he would call.

With that taken care of, I turned my attention to my real plans for the day; rolling out and baking Grandma Adele's gingerbread cookies. My heart fluttered a bit knowing that I planned to share these special treats with the strangers who lived on my block. As I pulled the dough out of the fridge, I knew that these cookies were the perfect way to say hello and to announce myself as a contributing member to the community. Other than the jerk next door to Jane, I was the proverbial new kid on the block.

Once I unwrapped the dough from its plastic tube, habit took over. Without thinking, I found myself pinching off a bit of dough and began rolling it out into a flat surface, allowing my mind to wander, while my hands did all the work. For some reason, my mind drifted to my angry neighbor. Even though I'd scarcely glanced at him before he'd shouted at me, I somehow remembered how intense his green eyes were. They seemed to devour me, so I was grateful I'd made my speedy retreat.

As the first batch of cookies baked, I prepped the too cute Christmas plates I'd bought to deliver them in. With each plate, I'd planned to add a card with my name, phone number and email address so that my new neighbors would know how to contact me. Rather than coldly printing them out on a piece of paper, I chose to handwrite each one, hoping that every neighbor would appreciate the thoughtfulness of my gesture. It wasn't that I wanted praise; rather, I wanted them to know that I was thinking of them and that I wanted our first connection to be something personal, rather than something that was easily spewed from an ink jet printer.

Once I'd assembled 12 plates with the appropriate "from" tags, I returned to the kitchen to pull the first batch of cookies from the oven. Gently, I placed each cookie onto a wire cooling rack and rolled out the next batch. Once the next batch was oven ready I checked my phone for messages. How pathetic is it that I had no voicemails, texts or emails? I didn't want to ponder that, especially since I was actually becoming worried about Mike. Although he'd missed plans in the past, he'd never gone more than a few hours before cancelling (too late) or calling to let me know he was OK. It was really unusual that he hadn't made any attempt to call me. If I didn't know that he'd be embarrassed, I would have been tempted to contact his Executive Assistant, Jessica, to see if she'd heard from him. Since it was the weekend, I figured that I should wait until regular business hours to contact Jessica, if I didn't hear from Mike before then.

I couldn't help myself and sent him a text.

Saturday passed in a blur. I rolled out cookies, baked them, cooled them and sent Mike a text or I left him a voicemail. As evening approached, I made myself a martini, again blessing the creators of Ketel One, before loading my CD player with my favorite music, or at least my favorites for that day. I was such a music fan that depending on my mood I could crave the punk stylings of Strung Out or the dulcet tones of Beethoven's 9th Symphony. No matter what, I loved music.

Tonight all I wanted to do was to lose myself in the soundtrack to Rent or to be energized by Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine, followed by some Uncle Tupelo for whimsy and closing out with Love Supreme. I settled into my favorite chair and stared out my front window. With the lights dimmed low, I sipped my martini and found myself thinking about my life. For whatever reason, it seemed to be easier to be honest with myself when I was cuddled in a chair under my favorite blanket sipping a martini and hearing the cast of Rent sing about the Seasons of Love.

As the cast of my favorite Broadway musical sang in the background, I found myself watching cars swoosh by, coasting up 14th. As each one passed beneath the streetlight on the corner, I wondered about the people inside. Were they on their way home from the theater? Dinner? A bar? Who was in each car? Were the occupants a couple? A single man or woman? If they were a couple, were they in love? What did that love mean to them?

I'd never really understood love. My parents had divorced when I was young. When my mom married Phil, I'd quickly extricated myself from the situation, so I wasn't there to observe how love blooms over time. Charlie was a lifetime bachelor and Grandma Adele had been single since before I was born. Was it strange that I was 33 years old and had no idea what love was like? I thought I was in love with Mike, but, in moments of truth, I knew that what I felt for him was great esteem and affection, but it was nowhere near the passionate love I'd seen in film or had read about in books.

The flashing lights of a fire truck careening down 14th roused me from my self-reflection and I concentrated on the vista outside my window. The snow was still falling – would it ever stop? My first winter in Colorado was full of mystery, when it came to the weather. Honestly, it'd snowed maybe three times in the two years I'd lived with Charlie. Washington State may prep you for rain, but snow is relatively unusual occurrence, at least in Forks.

Begrudgingly accepting my new role as a homeowner in snowy Colorado, I rose from my perch and donned my outdoor gear. In what seemed like a new winter ritual, I pulled a smoke from my emergency pack and justified it to myself, before I pulled my front door open. Standing on my porch in the crisp night air, I lit my cigarette and relished the feel of the smoke filling my lungs as I surveyed the amount of snow that had fallen in the hours since my morning sweep.

Judging by the accumulation on the borders of my porch, it seemed obvious that my trusty broom wouldn't do the trick tonight. I needed my shovel. Pausing to take another deep gulp from my martini, and washing it down with a drag from my smoke, I grabbed the snow shovel I'd bought at Target months ago and began the slow process of clearing my walk. Just like last night, I cleared my walk and Jane's. Since I'd swept our walks in the morning, it was clear that the new neighbor hadn't yet shoveled today. As I approached his property line the snow was clearly deeper by an inch or two. No footprints made their way to his door. It looked like he was out of town.

I stood there, boots covered with snow, gloved hands clutching the shovel and stared at his house. I didn't know what the fuck was wrong with me. For some reason I felt _compelled_ to shovel his snow. How bizarre is that? Perhaps my loneliness had turned me into a people pleasing freak. Perhaps I thought that he'd like me if I shoveled his snow. That was a fucking laughable thought since he'd all but chased me off his property last night with harsh language and words.

But why was I standing here, paused at his property line? Why was my heart rate beginning to pick up? Was I turned on by rejection? If I was, I would have been insatiable this weekend given Mike's no call no show approach to our relationship. I don't know what the fuck was wrong with me but for some reason, I felt compelled to shovel New Guy's walk. Before my brain could kick in, my body was pushing the shovel forward. I was clearing New Guy's walk. When the shovel came to the intersection of the public walk and the flagstone stairs that led to his property, my brain finally took control. I skipped over his personal walk and kept shoveling away, clearing the sidewalk of New Guy's neighbors. I don't know how long it took, but I loved the combination of the silence of the snow and the scrape of the shovel against the concrete beneath it. I kept shoveling until there was no more snow to move. My cigarette had long ago expired, and I turned to look up the street to my house. Who knew how long I'd been out there, but regardless, I'd shoveled nearly half the block. My fingertips were numb with the cold, but I didn't feel like turning in. I was relishing being alone on the street, as the snow gently fell with me as the guardian of the block. I was She who shoveled and I was powerful in my craft.

As I walked back towards my home, I realized that I'd shoveled the walk to everyone's homes except for New Guy's. As I approached myhouse, I noticed how out of place it looked that His home was the only one with snow still on the approach to his porch.

Between my studies and living with a cop for two years I knew that the last thing you wanted in an urban neighborhood (or any neighborhood) was to stand out. As such, the cop's daughter in me couldn't stand to leave New Guy's walk unshoveled, since I'd done everyone else's homes. Taking a deep breath and pulling my hat down below my ears, I forced myself to start to shovel on his property.

The night was so still that it seemed like every scape of the shovel against the flagstone sidewalk was as loud as a jackhammer. Afraid of waking the New Guy, I was tentative in my movements. What would have taken me 10 minutes to shovel took nearly three times as long because I was trying to be stealthy as I shoveled. Who tries to be a stealthy shoveler? Is that even a word? How fucked up am I?

As I slowly approached the very steps I'd been accosted from last night, I pushed a pile of snow to my left. My inner dialogue was truly bizarre. A part of me felt like a stalker while the goody-two-shoes inner girl just wanted to please the unknown angry stranger. With a huff, I admonished all of my psycho inner voices and affirmed, with complete certainty, that all I was doing was being neighborly. I mean, if I was out of town, wouldn't it be nice if someone shoveled my walk? With that in mind, I found myself shuffling behind the scraping noise of my trusty snow shovel. As my shovel and I got closer and closer to the New Guy's porch steps, I seemed to be breathing heavier. I dismissed that reaction and assumed it was because my usual physical exertion was walking from my car to the office. Obviously, my physical reaction to the New Guy's house had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! This is my first Twilight fic, and I appreciate any and all comments or suggestions. Thanks!!!


End file.
